


the seeds of lust

by ennaih (aquandrian)



Category: Original Work
Genre: 90s Mendo, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Photographer, Anal Fingering, Casual Sex, F/M, First Time, Heels, Lingerie, Makeup, Shameless Smut, another Mendo AU, excessive hedonism you might say, in filthy images, in which i take the opportunity, jewellery kink, no he is not the photographer, occasionally rough sex, this is as close to xReader as i get, to put young Mendo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-03-10 14:05:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13503098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aquandrian/pseuds/ennaih
Summary: Photoshoot debauchery featuring 90s sinful longhaired Mendo.





	the seeds of lust

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this very nsfw full frontal male nude photograph of Rodrigo Yala](https://48wearyandthin.tumblr.com/post/169460064836/avantgarde-eroticarodrigo-yala) taken by Jose Martinez.
> 
> And Dazey that fuckslut Mendo in Metal Skin, gifs by myself and [benmendelsohnappreciation](https://benmendelsohnappreciation.tumblr.com/post/164942022700/ben-mendelsohn-metal-skin-1996):  
>   
>   
> 
> 
> Title and framing quotes from _Kiss The Dirt (Falling Down The Mountain)_ by INXS.

_To photograph people is to violate them, by seeing them as they never see themselves, by having knowledge of them that they can never have; it turns people into objects that can be symbolically possessed. Just as a camera is a sublimation of the gun, to photograph someone is a subliminal murder - **a soft murder** …_

\-- Susan Sontag

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_cut into the night // we find the seeds of lust // and lose our minds in one intent // these passions never seem to end_

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s one more job, another pretty young flavour of the month to shoot. This one a white boy in his mid-twenties, an actor. She arrives at her warehouse studio strategically late, talks to her assistants about lights and food, says a brief hello to his hovering publicist and agent, making it quite clear that they are not to stay beyond ten minutes. She knows what’s required of her.

If she had more time or cared more, she might have watched a couple of his films to get a sense of how to shoot him, what to draw out of him for the lens. But the industry doesn’t really demand quality anymore. And she’s established a style by now -- certain objects, a certain framing and composition, a certain grunge aesthetic, and the industry approves. She explores her creativity within these parameters, pushes boundaries when she can. It’s a living, she’s luckier than most, she knows that. 

And one day she’ll walk away from all the filth and glamour, disappear into the mountains to take pictures of skies and leaves that no one will ever see.

But for now she picks up the first of her cameras, approaching that different mindspace with the familiar weight and shape of it between her hands. Head down, checking the settings, she approaches the boy sitting with his arms braced on the stool, his legs long and angled around the struts. Feels him stare at her, a little shocked like they usually are.

It’s true, she is a spectacle, deliberately so. It’s the tattoos and half shaved head, all the more alarming for being on a woman, a professional artist in the more or less mainstream. Her hair is long and sleek on one side, shaved to the pale skin above one ear. She’s always barefoot when she works, today in a short black dress that’s loose enough to allow for easy movement. 

As she inspects her camera, he probably looks at the tattoo winding up from her foot, a twisting rose vine of blood and blooms that curls around her ankle, around her calf, all the way up her thigh to disappear green and red beneath the high hem of the dress. When she lifts her eyes to his face, he’s staring at the blue cloud of ornate murk around her throat, the vivid abstract form that spreads across her collarbones and slips under the square neckline.

“You right there?” she asks with irony. 

And he smiles slow and sly at her. He has perfectly shaped blue eyes that tinge a bit towards grey, hair in long dark waves around a face of excellent bone structure, and a finely cut completely sinful mouth that speaks of ruin. She recognises his type immediately. He’s a young man who’s only just come into his sexual power, and it drips off him, the reek of pheromones and masculine allure. 

But as she steps back with a small automatic smile, she realises, no, it’s not entirely masculine. That perfect teetering point between the sexual binary, an androgyny of excess not absence -- excessive masculinity with his bold jaw and nose and cheekbones, and excessive femininity with his long dark hair and brows and soft inviting mouth.

She can make use of that.

A flick of her fingers at an assistant, and the music level rises, energetic familiar Aussie rock that makes his lips quirk in a smile of recognition. She captures that smile, he moves into a self-consciousness, all shoulders and attitude in his blue jeans and a tattered black tee. As the song streams around the brick walls of the warehouse, around the lights and equipment and different coloured backdrops at the ready, she circles him, snapping the disposable preliminary shots, waiting. And there comes the uncertainty, the authentic self she hunts. It sneaks through in the sideways glances, in the moments he lets the mask drops from such an expressive face. And now he plays with that, loving the attention of the lens and hating himself for that too. All of it chases across his face, the turn away, the eyes that slide back to her, petulant and human.

She starts to see the vulnerable beauty in him, and how to manifest that in the contours of his throat and jaw, the lick of dark long hair. She shoots him as he is, natural, and then lowers the camera. “How would you like some makeup? Dark shadows?”

“Sort of grungy emo?”

“Yeah.”

“Sure.” He shrugs. His people have left a little while ago, he’s comfortable enough or arrogant enough to make these decisions himself. But when the assistant steps forward, his blue eyes slant back to her. “Can you do it?”

He’s been watching her in return, the drape of her hair over her shoulder, the curve of her arm as she swaps cameras. When she’d crouched down, his gaze had dropped to the hem of her skirt, that flicker of awareness to dark lashes.

Now she considers it, gaze locked to his. “Yeah, all right.”

He tips his face up for hers, his weird soft lips parting, lashes coming down. She smears it on, and hears him gasp a little. His lust is a quick simmering energy, so close to the surface. She suspects it’s not necessarily her, that he’d be like this with any attractive available girl and possibly a few pretty boys too. But then his gaze seizes on the blue around her neck, dips to where the blue swells above the dress, and okay, maybe part of it is for her too.

He’s certainly not the first person to feel this for a person holding a camera, he won’t be the last. And she’s had a few encounters that began like this. But it’s a delicate situation, with so many predators in the industry, most of them male. And she’s moral enough to know how lust can be manipulated, created, how power manufactures an excited gratitude that can be mistaken for desire. So she smudges shadow above the slope of his cheekbone, and steps back to pick her camera up, out of his reach.

He changes with the makeup, a smouldering intensity with a hint of playfulness. Switching into melancholy and a darkness that she sees him summon up like a good little method actor. Stark white against black backdrop, close in on the grain of his damaged young face. The cut of his sullen mouth as he goes into some buried thought and loses awareness of her. And the sudden alert change, blue eyes lancing into the lens, blazing defiance out of the dark. He pulls off his tee, a bruised and messy young man smearing a brutal hand across his bare chest with its small pink nipples, up across the side of his face, strands of black hair and pale skin, playing up to her with his faux rockstar grunge, open pink mouth and glint of teeth.

He’s in that reckless zone now, entirely ready to explore outside the parameters of convention. So she gestures to the side where a trunk of props stands open. “Go have a look. Take what you want, wear what you want. Play.”

This is the real art, the beautiful trashy visuals she’s known for. The stuff that gets her blood pumping, violating the safe sane anodyne with imagery that blurs gender and breaks bodies. Model willing. 

The props clearly catch his imagination. A crown of ornate sparkle that he offers to her lens in his broad hands, that he topples across one dark brow and arches his strong throat, mouth tilting sweet as he glances over at her. Definitely black and white for that one, she thinks. This half naked prince of stage and screen, his arrogance peeling off him like strips of skin. 

“Dance for me,” she says, classic Mapplethorpe in her head. “Dance with someone you love.” This half naked prince seeking a consort, his hands clasping the open air, soft dreaming in his tender face.

He changes into a pair of leather pants, brash enough to get naked in front of her. She averts her gaze, accepting a cup of coffee from an assistant. The black leather clings to his thighs, bulges at the crotch, so touchable and stark against his pale taut abdomen. He lights up a cigarette, sits on the stool, all sloping shoulders and long limbs, and blows the smoke up white against the black. 

“Good,” she says, warm with pleasure. It makes him quiver, darting her a quick bright smile.

Against the iron decayed side of the trunk, he reclines on the floor and drapes one arm across the open heap of trinkets. Another tilt up of that bold profile, bare nipples and freckled chest, cigarette held at a slant, the arch of white throat and the plume of white smoke. His instincts are towards the depraved beautiful, they’re perfect.

A flimsy grey vest is found and pulled on, threadbare ribbed fabric that barely buttons across his chest, reveals his navel above black obscene leather, as he spreads his arms and grins at her. His mouth is so pink and sluttish, she thrills inside when he finds the lipstick and puts it on, looks to her for arch glittering approval. 

It turns him into a coquette, he leans his elbows on the stool and plays up to her lens, moving between self-consciousness and self-pleasure, all smoky eyed and luscious lips as she leans in close. The hem of her dress rises high on the back of her thighs, and she sees his eyes dip down again. Sultry blue eyes in shadow now, he’s thinking about her nakedness in that dress and wants her to know it.

She gives him no sign.

He finds a length of black tulle, puts the crown back on, and drapes the fabric over it all. Sheer black, the white shapes of his face, red lips and blue eyes, this fine deathly boy contorting his hands into claws, piercing blue eyes up at some ghost only he sees.

Vivid red lipstick and huge blue wraparound shades, he leans against the brick wall, bare chest and long leather legs, sharp shoulders as he hugs himself, washed in blue neon from above that sizzles A Soft Murder. The lipstick smears soon enough, sticky red when he bites his own wrist and moans, a fragile white pretty thing tearing at itself.

A scrap of black lace that he pulls over his eyes and turns to her, sharp cheekbones and nose and the thin ripe line of his mouth. Fairy lights that he finds and wraps all around his head and neck and hands, binding himself for her seeing eye. She has him stand before a mirror then, captures the refraction of gold and gilt frame, the beautiful thing contemplating itself in the glass.

“Turn around,” she murmurs and doesn’t touch the perfect pearl ridge of his spine when he hunches over for her, the muscles in his back shifting and moving like cream under skin, black leather coiling around his hips. 

When she tells him to take a break and have a coffee, he cradles the cup in his big hands, all his brashness and borrowed glamour falling away to a vulnerable boy, eyes downcast as he thinks his soft thoughts. Lipstick and leather and bare awkward shoulders, dark hair swerving across his brow. She captures it.

He wants them to move to the backdrop with the red fabric that cascades down the wall across a concealed ledge and spills across the floor. That actor ego, moving always towards the dramatic moment. 

She sees when he pulls at the waist of the leather trousers, frustration pulling ugly at his mouth.

“Why don’t you undo them?” she suggests. “Just a little. You don’t have to --”

“Why don’t you do it?” he interrupts, his eyes glittery blue in smeared shadow.

He doesn’t try to touch her, but he seems to vibrate with heat as he watches her approach. She stands very close to him, looking into sly blue, and unbuttons the straining trousers, grazing her knuckles against the shape of his stiffening cock in leather. His coffee breath is on her mouth, those uneven lips wet and parting with excitement. This close, he smells of nicotine and hot male flesh.

She drags her nails through his pubic hair, catching skin, down and then up towards his navel. He flinches, a happy little growl in his throat. And she reaches in to take hold of his cock, all that warm secret flesh. Boundaries approached and crossed, violated with implicit permission.

“Uh, god,” he says softly, his cock hardening more in her hand.

She adjusts her grip and curves her hand lower, cups the generous weight of his balls. Her mouth quirks, amused and appreciative. As his eyes smoulder blue on her, wanting so much, she smooths her palms across the bones of his hips and peels the leather down off his arse, down so she touches all that curving flesh and watches his expressive eyes, down so his cock is freed, brushing insistent against her dress.

His hand rises toward her breast.

“Mm. No.”

She releases him and steps back, retreats behind the camera on its tripod with the smell of his secret flesh on her palm. He’s breathing fast, a slight sheen of sweat on his white chest, those lovely eyes fixed hot on her.

“Go play,” she reminds him. And the curiosity flickers across his face, his attention distracted back to the trunk of cheap treasure. He finds a headset, puts it on with some wonder. 

“Over to the window,” she says. One arm braced against the brick jamb, the sunlight gilding all the creamy curves and contours of his nude body, catching the rumpled waves of dark hair. She goes down on one knee to get the angle she wants, his round arse and deep indent of his back, the muscle of his arm and that delicious slope by his hip. A long dead gunner is in her head.

He finds the high black heels, steps into them with a feral grin. He’s done this before, his thin mouth pursing with pleasure as he turns sideways to her, showing off his changed posture. The heels make his calves so long and taut, set off the rich curve of his bottom as he reaches up to cover his face with his arms. 

“Touch your arse,” she says, moving to where the light catches the delicate grain of the skin along his spine. 

His shame is quite gone now, flirting with her over his shoulder as he reaches down and cups his own arse, strong legs spread on the black wicked shapes of the heels.

The black pantyhose he yanks onto one leg, slipping back into the heels. And when he stands balls out, half hard cock, legs braced wide apart, he looks down at himself and pulls so the black stretches up his long thigh and across to his other hip. Glances up at her, his eyes bright because he knows, he knows now. 

Debauched queen in heels and ripped tights.

This is exactly the stuff that makes her wet.

His nudity makes everything that much more extreme. He inhabits his body like a sort of possessing entity, callous and uncaring of himself. Twisted ropes of tiny pearls around his body flung on the red like a discarded doll, cutting around his pink nipples. Tiny white sheer panties that barely contain dark pubic hair and abused flesh when he splays his thighs and arches for her lens, bare leg bending with the black heel scraping. He pushes them down to stretch across his thighs and looks up at her, offering his naked arse, his mouth open against the red fabric.

She looks down at him, and reaches under her dress. Drags black lace down her legs and steps out of it. 

His eyes are wide shocky blue, he pushes himself up on his elbows but she’s already moving away, holding her camera out to an assistant to swap. She knows from the way her assistant’s eyes move that he’s reached out and grabbed her panties, has put them to his face. Under her dress, she gets that much wetter.

When he finds the rhinestone headdress with the feathered plume, it arches his back like a showgirl, high on those heels, smoke rising white from a lit cigarette.

“I want a drink,” he says, abruptly discarding the feathers and stepping out of the heels. “Something hard.”

An assistant brings him a bottle, no one batting a lid at his flesh and semi-arousal. It’s tequila, the fumes reach her where she’s arranging the folds of fabric.

Loosened with alcohol, he lies on his back atop the ledge, carving perfect negative space with the curve of his arse and the contour of his thigh as he draws one knee up. And he lets his arm fall in a graceful swoop, one finger touching the fabric below. She leans in so he’s all body, nameless and transmuted to beautiful object.

She’s photographed a hundred boys like him, and fucked a few. And now he lazes back on the red drapery, all flesh and sprawled limbs, smiling at her with half-lidded eyes, his mouth very fine and smeared red.

“Go on, then,” she says.

He wraps his hand around his stiffening cock. Tugging and breathing fast, rough with his own flesh, creamy white on lush red fabric, gasping as she circles him to capture the angle of his jaw, the curve of dark hair on shoulder, the slope of his chest, the long line of his torso down to the long line of his cock in his big hand.

“Come over here,” he says roughly.

“Not yet.”

A length of white lace drags from his dark head as he bends over in the sunlight, white lace spilling across the dirty floor, an uncanny creature faceless and haunting. 

He slips on a bracelet, silver snake coiled around his forearm. Clips a double drop earring to one lobe, and turns his profile to her. The silver shapes set off the sharp angles of his jaw, glint against the jet black curves of his hair. He’s so pleased with himself, lifts the cascading necklace with a broadening smile, and then fastens it around his neck. It drapes heavy on his chest, across the deep slants of his collarbones, catching facets of clear light. And he poses for her, beautiful trash, lifting his hands to his dark hair, his hips and shoulders tilted, his cock thick and dangling cut.

Catamite, she thinks as she circles him with the camera. The beautiful boy heralding the way to glittering death and oblivion.

With a laugh, he drapes the necklace over his forehead like a tiara, on his knees like a drunk debutante, and she leans in, training her shot on his open pink mouth, on his wet inviting eyes.

“Come here,” he says again.

“Why? What do you want?”

On his hands and knees in the red fabric, he shakes his head so the tiara falls away. “I want to know what you taste like.”

He’s not talking about her mouth.

Her assistants retreat to the warehouse walls. She knows them well enough, trusts them enough to leave if they’re uncomfortable, to stay and bear witness and keep her secrets.

So she lets the heavy camera dangle on its strap around her neck, and she gathers the loose material of her skirt in each hand. His breathing quickens, he pulls the earring off absently, one big hand coming to clench around his cock as he kneels upright in the red. Watching the reveal of flesh and vine and blood and bloom up her thigh. The tattoo circles the mound of her sex, drips a full bloody rose above the neat hair of her cunt, and crosses over to the point of her hip.

“Oh fuck,” he says brokenly, nostrils flaring as he gets her scent, and squeezes the base of his cock that leaks clear fluid at the tip.

She combs her fingertips down, watches his mesmerised face as she parts the lips of her cunt and lets him see the tiny steel piercing above deep wet pink.

“Oh fuck!” And he licks her there, his mouth savage and hungry. Grabs her arse with hard fingers, his tongue broad, so wet, flicking steel and sensitive nerves, making her gasp and clutch at his hair.

He pulls her down to the drapery, her dress gets torn off, he chokes at the sight of tattoos swirling across her breasts, blue curls and clouds framing the points of her nipples. It’s such a gratifying reaction she lets him bury his greedy mouth in her cleavage, mouthing colour and smooth skin, but then he’s back at her cunt, sucking so hard she’s coming on his face even as she’s twisting around to get at his cock. He groans loud and bites at her cunt when she sucks him into her mouth. He has no finesse whatsoever, rough and desperate and so needy she glories in it, in driving him to this. He fucks his big cock into the hot wet of her mouth, forcing her thighs apart as he licks down to her arsehole, a greedy invasive fuck. But just when she thinks he’s going to come down her throat, he pulls off in a dizzying swirl of limbs and flesh. 

He wants her on her hands and knees, she absolutely refuses, shoving him down onto his back. 

Two fingers she puts in his smeared filthy mouth, he sucks, his eyes feverish blue as he gropes at her bare tits, almost bruising her with his eager hands. She gives him her thumb instead, cupping his cheek as she reaches for her camera. Asks him with raised brows if that’s okay. He moans around her thumb, so pretty and stained red, and she captures that perfect shape. The click of the shutter pushes him up, berserk with lust, but she’s ready for him, engulfs his cock with her ready wet cunt. 

The camera falls to the rumpled fabric, neither of them care. Her hands are on his face, his are slipping clutching at her naked back, as he moans like a slut and fucks hard and hard up into her. She grapples with his hands and pushes him down onto his back, following him with her hair spilling black silk over their faces, her hips driving his cock, steel on her throbbing clit, milking him merciless with her convulsing cunt. He comes with a bellow, his whole body arching tight against hers, spilling so much come into her it drips down her thighs. 

She grins, amused at these young things. “Not done with you yet,” she whispers and his body spasms in response, wide excited blue eyes in the shadow of hair. She lets go of his hands and crawls down his body. The bottle of tequila is to one side, she uncaps it and splashes it liberally across his chest and abdomen and down over his thighs. Fumes and bites, he groans and pulls at her hair, strokes the smooth bare side of her head as she licks all the alcohol and come off him. Sucks on his balls until he’s shaking and pleading. She nearly puts her thumb inside him before she remembers to ask permission.

Pushing herself up, she lets him cup her breasts, his mouth licking across blue curves, capturing one nipple then the other. And she asks, “Have you been to Hellfire?”

He lets her nipple slip out of his mouth, smirking up at her. “Of course.”

The fetish clubspace opened less than five years ago, of course a mothboy like him would seek out that furnace of sin.

“What did you do there?” His mouth curls. “Or have done to you?”

She wants to collar and chain him and lead him in there, her alabaster catamite with eyes of blue. 

“Did you get your cock sucked?” she wants to know. “By a man?”

He blushes severely, which could mean either thing. And she tells him, “I’m going to make you hard. Tell me if you don’t like this.”

Oh he likes it. Shouts and bucks up and swears at her to keep going, lubed up and open for her fingers. His cock stiffens like she was pretty sure it would, these young things with their stamina, spurts come when she sucks it, and stays hard and red.

“Fuck, fuck,” he snarls, grabbing her by the upper arms. “Get on your knees, right fucken now.”

“Are you sure?” she taunts him, and laughs when he reacts exactly the way she wants. He flings her onto her stomach, immediately apologises, and then bites at the side of her throat when she reaches back to grab him. He covers her breast with a big hand and drives his cock so hard into her cunt she cries out, pushed forward onto her knees in the disarray of red material. Head down, arse up, half suffocating in red as he fucks her raw and screaming, coming and coming with her piercing making everything so much keener, her body racked with colours and heat, this violent little death over and over again until he shudders into her, wet and soothing.

The first thing she realises afterwards is that the music is still going. And then that he’s mouthing the curve of her back, hungry again. She thinks for a few minutes and then carefully dislodges him, getting to her feet. “Stay like that.” 

He obeys, watching her with those wide clear eyes, so much an artless boy now. 

Camera mounted on the tripod and angled just so, she puts her hand on his shoulder and pushes him gently down. Lies beside him in the opposite direction, and cups a hand over his genitals. He understands, darting a look at the lens before he reaches a tender hand between her legs. She clicks the remote control. It’ll be a blurry shot, just bodies, just deliciously out of focus.

He wants to fuck again, this time scooping her onto her side and clasping her wrist as he slides into her from behind. Her tits and thighs, his body framing hers, his dark head against hers, he licks the smooth curve of skin above her ear, his hips moving, and the shutter clicks.

“Are they going to join us?” he asks a little later, his voice reverberating through her.

She blinks at the sight of her assistants ranged against the back wall, all looking studiously elsewhere. “Oh.” She rolls onto her back, raising her hand to brush his hair back from his forehead. “Would you like them to?”

His mouth curves slow and fine, his hand closing over her tattooed breast. “Maybe later.”

“If they want to,” she says automatically, distracted by the sight of his lips coming down to hers.

He kisses her with infinite tenderness, so delicate she feels it flutter right through her, all the way down til her clit pulses, making her catch her breath. Fingers curling in his hair, she kisses him back with a slow dawning discovery. It’s like she’s tumbling, toppling slowly down the side of a great rocky height. He kisses like a gentleman, a beautiful courteous young male, kindness and respect, and just the hint of filthy possibility.

They’re dozing in peace when the buzzer sounds below. It’s his publicist and agent. As an assistant darts towards the stairs, they scramble to their feet, looking hastily around for clothes.

By the time his people enter, it’s only the studio that looks messier than it was. They’re both dressed, she in jeans and a tee, he in the clothes he arrived in, cleaning his face off with makeup wipes. The usual post-shoot arrangements occur, confirmation of contact details and payment. If there’s a particularly strong scent of sex and tequila, no one mentions it.

He takes her hand in his and says with great sincerity and only the slightest hint of irony, “It was wonderful working with you.”

Amused, she replies, “And you.”

“We might do it again sometime.”

“We might,” she agrees. And his eyes sparkle blue.

_look a little closer // sometimes it wouldn’t hurt_

**Author's Note:**

> So very many, many photograph references in this I'm not even going to try and list them all. I had seventy-two reference pix, yo!
> 
> But two pretty famous images of note: [this is the gunner reference](https://48wearyandthin.tumblr.com/post/170149433481/gregferrell-maleinstructor-in-the-heat-of); and [this is the Mapplethorpe image](https://48wearyandthin.tumblr.com/post/170149146746/tftp4-robert-mapplethorpe-two-men-dancing).
> 
> Also, thank you to vell1chor for pretty much losing her shit and shrieking when I sent her the image of Rodrigo Yala and said, "I really wanna work out a way to put young Mendo in this."


End file.
